Gone in 60 Seconds II: Leap of Faith
by Michael Webber
Summary: Memphis must boost the fastest road-legal car in the world to save Sway.


"Gone in 60 Seconds: Part II" By Michael Couch The roar was the smoothest and most intimidating sound Memphis Ranes had ever heard from an engine. He stroked the hood of the '92 Porsche 944, and a hand swung through slapping his own off of it. "What are you doing?" Auto, a man of about sixty, had a look of confusion on his face. "You may treat Eleanor like that, but not my baby." Memphis stepped back, signifying his respect for the car, hands drawn up into the air. "Can't I at least take it out for a spin?" * * * It was a classic scenario. Tasha, Auto's Porsche 944, with Memphis at the wheel, sat with its 10-cylinder V-Tech engine growling at the S200 to its left. The light flashes to green and the revolving flywheels abruptly catch and tug with an initial 1500 rpm from the camshaft. Both sets of rear wheels scream and leave behind dark black rubber-burned lines on the hot pavement. Memphis' foot leans firmly on the clutch; he places one hand at the top of the wheel and uses the other to grip the shifter. He uses incredibly suave and authoritative motions to balance the fuel injector and clutch pressure; all four limbs working in perfect coordination until he leaves the defeated Honda out of view in his rear view mirror. "Shame," he said to himself, "Never even got to hit fifth." Soon a red light gleamed obtrusively into Memphis' eye from his mirrors. "Damnit!" he yelled as he pulled into the dirt off of the side of the road. A forest green Crown Vic pulled up and halted ten feet behind him. A tall dark man in a dark suit stepped out and two identical larger forms stepped out and tailed behind him. These were clearly not cops but certainly forces of which one should be weary. The three men approached the car and took positions around it, and Memphis rolled down his window to speak with the pack's leader. "Yes?" "You Memphis Ranes?" "Yes." "I'm Dominique Warrens. Your skill is greatly needed.No, your skill is greatly required." "What do you mean?" "I need a car." "I don't do that business anymore. Damnit! When will this town understand that!" "A 2002 Mclaren F1. Worth 1.3 million dollars. Pay for it legally if you like, but I need it." "Are you serious? There's only like five of those in the entire U.S! There's no way I could even afford it if I ever got my hands on one, anyway!" "I said pay for it if you like." "I'm not interested." Memphis takes a brutal blow to the face as Dominique bashes his hand into Memphis' cheek. "I never said anything about a choice. You must get me this car." Brushing his cheek with his hand and soothing it with his tongue from the inside, Memphis raises his eyes. "Suppose I don't succeed? Another friendly fist to the head?" "Sarcasm is not appreciated. I'm afraid the consequences are much more dire." He turned to one of his companions. "Get her on the phone." He turned back to Memphis, still sitting in the Porsche. "I'm sure you'll recognize her voice over the phone." The accomplice handed Dominique his cell phone, and Dominique held it to Memphis' ear. Memphis heard a voice and shrank his shoulders with fear. "Memphis, baby, you gotta believe 'em. These guys are crazy. They smashed up a Mercedes S-Series right in front of me like it was nothin'!" "Sway!" Memphis yelled, "Where do they have you?" The phone snapped shut as Dominique pulled it away from Memphis' ear.  
  
Dominique made one last remark before he went back to his car. "Do it, or you'll get a front row seat the watch your girlfriend die, Ranes." * * * "Okay, Memphis, I tracked down three F1s, One in Sacramento, one in Bel Air, and one in London. Take your pick." Auto was jotting information down on his blackboard back in the garage. Tasha, the Porsche, was up on jacks because Dominique's men had apparently slashed her tires. "I don't boost cars anymore," replied Memphis with a serious countenance. Auto, respecting his moral decision while also rationalizing reality, looked him in the eyes with a hint of wisdom. "You got a half million dollars?" "No." "You love Sway?" "Yea." "Then I don't think you have a choice now, do you?" ".No." The silence that followed consisted of Memphis pondering love versus moral values and Auto respecting his conundrum. Finally, Auto broke it. "Well.?" "Let's try Sacramento. I hear it's nice down there in August." * * * After booking a flight and arriving in Sacramento, Memphis and his companion and old time friend Sphynx, whom he had persuaded to come along (Sphynx was perfectly willing once he heard Sway was in trouble), boarded a bus to their hotel. They unloaded their luggage into their room and set to work. Auto, with connections all over the country, had gotten in touch with an old friend and acquired the two a Ferrari Madonna 360. "Not exactly Memphis' type, but it'll do," Auto had said. Memphis and Sphynx took a bus to the 7th street auto garage and drove away in the Ferrari. "I hate to say this, but I think I'm gonna like getting behind the wheel of that F1." Memphis said while already behind the wheel of the Ferrari. Sphynx was in the passenger side. "V12, 24-valve dual overhead cam, that thing gets 0-60 faster than I can chug half a beer." Sphynx didn't say much, but when he did, it was only ever about cars or philosophy, which in most cases, to him, were the same thing. When light started to become scarce, they pulled up to a house a couple houses down from the mansion that owned the McLaren F1. They sat in the car outside the houses front gates. No one could see their car behind the shrubbery, and the owners of the house were clearly not home. "Loaded neighborhood," Memphis remarked. "Look, you make sure coasts are clear, and I'm gonna study the place's layout. If I'm feeling lucky, I'll head up a check if the car actually is in the garage." He got out of the car and crept surreptitiously up a hill to the mansion. Circling the garage with a wide enough perimeter that no dogs or alarms could be set off, he made his way to a darkened window of the garage. He drew a flashlight out of his inside coat pocket, checked the scene around him, shown it into the window, and saw a majestic gleaming reflect back at him. Chills raced up and down his spine and his breaths grew deep as his flashlight traced over the embossed lettering on the back of a sleek, awe-inspiring craft: McLaren. "Easiest get away I'll ever have," he whispered to himself. He did one last scan of the perimeter checking for any latent security features that he might not be able to handle. Then, we strode back to Sphynx and the car and got in. He drove off without a word; the thought of driving that beast in the garage inundated his mind. * * * The following night was a work night. Memphis and Sphynx again drove to the mansion. Again, Memphis got out of the Ferrari and headed up the hill to the garage. He wore black slacks, a black leather jacket, and black leather gloves. He then took out his flashlight and along with it, this time, a long, thin, claw-like blade. He traced a square on the glass an inch or so in from the window frame and smoothly caught it as it feel inwards. Not a sound had been made the entire process. Placing the blade back in his pocket, and then withdrew a spray bottle, sprayed it all around the area in front of him, between himself and the car. The mist of chemical revealed otherwise invisible red beams, and Memphis took great care to avoid each one while climbing through the window into the garage. He traced his gloved hand along the carbon fiber body, which was as black as his own clothing. Finally, as he readied himself for the intense getaway to come, he took out a small black rectangular device, and held it to the car's door, which, for security reasons, had no handles. He pressed a button on the device and a signal was sent to the car, and the wing door began to flip, not out, but up. Just then, a large, broad-chested man appeared in the doorway to the mansion. "Hold it!" the man yelled, and Memphis heard the unmistakable, smooth clicking of a loading shotgun. The garage lights flipped on and Memphis, sure enough, stood five feet away from the barrel of a double gauged shotgun. "Mind tellin' me what the ---- your doin' next to my car, buddy? 'Cause I think I'd kill you before I'd let you touch my car. And seems to me you already did." There was a load crashing, followed by a seemingly louder crunching. Sphynx had entered the garage behind the man and broken his arms with a simple clasping of his own. The man screamed, and Sphynx grabbed the shotgun before it hit the ground and walloped the man over the head with the butt of it. The man hit the ground with a loud thump. Memphis watched the actions in amazement and appreciation, although, what he said didn't quite sound as such. "Alright, get back in the Ferrari, lets go." Sphynx bent down over the man and made sure he was breathing. He reached into his coat pocket, drew out a silver set of unblemished keys on a key ring with a remote door opener on it, and tossed the set to Memphis. Then he raced out to the Ferrari and waited. Memphis hopped into the single seat of the McLaren, placed his feet on the clutch and brake, and started the ignition. It started almost before Memphis could release and quiet, magnificent purring sounded from the engine in the back of the car. He released the break, revved the engine with precision to 1100 rpm, and shoved the shifter into first. The car glided out of the garage, down the hill and into the moonlit street. Sphynx pulled out of the driveway down the street, and the two made their way nonchalantly down the street, traveling at a rough 30 mph to remain inconspicuous. Within two minutes, however, Memphis heard sirens not 2 miles away. He cautiously increased his speed to 45 mph still moving in first gear. The sirens grew closer, and Memphis, concluding them to be aimed for him, pushed the engine to an easy 3300 rpm, and thrust the shifter into second; not a second later he pushed the engine to third, and by the time he had hit the highway, he was cruising in fourth gear at 165 mph. He dodged cars across three lanes of highway, and every once in a while, a new batch of police cars would pull onto the highway from an entrance ramp, and he would leave them behind in a matter of seconds. Sphynx trailed close behind in the Ferrari Madonna, but soon got off at a ramp to return the car to the auto shop on 7th street. The plan was he would catch his own flight back home, assuming he'd avoided confrontation of his own with the police, which he had. Memphis decided to push the car up to 180 mph and threw it into fifth gear, to keep it from working so hard; Dominique would be able to know if his car had been mistreated. Soon, another set of sirens came into view in Memphis' rear view mirror. This one, however, drew closer than any other police car yet. "---- ," he yelled at himself, "they've got Lamborghinis in California!" The Lamborghini Coontache flew buy cars behind Memphis, and began to pull up beside him. He swerved to his right and just barely made an exit ramp which would lead him to the ferry he'd take back home and was luckily straight enough that he didn't need to slow down too much to make. He sped down empty streets, until he saw that Lamborghini cop car was still trailing him. He decided he'd have to push the McLaren, the world's fastest road-legal car, to get out of the mess. He broke 200 mph easy in fifth gear, but the cop still followed him. He kept forcing the accelerator, until it reached a healthy 3300 rpm and he threw the shifter into its last resort, 6th gear. The engine roared coolly, but intimidating at the same time. Tires shrieked under the incredible pressure and burning. The speedometer read 225 mph and it kept increasing steadily. The sirens faded in the distance behind him. And the ferry rapidly came into view. It had already left and an even forty yards was exceedingly expanding as the ferry slowly pulled away. The speedometer slid up to 235 mph and kept moving clockwise. The ferry was only about 500 yards away now, and Memphis jammed his foot onto the steel pedal of the accelerator. The needle on the speedometer hit 242 mph, the odometer's needle read 9000 rmp, and both were shacking violently. Finally the McLaren F1 launched off the dock, and flew through the air with tires spinning. Memphis felt a sense of intriguing freedom, with the wheel sliding with a scary ease through his hands. He slammed on the break, and clutch and rapidly swung his shifter through the gears on down to nuetral. Finally the car landed on the ferry with a light crash, and it sped down a clearing between other cars and eventually came to a relieving stop. * * * Back home, Sway and Memphis, arrive at Auto's garage and are greeted by the silent, somber waving hand of Sphynx. "Let's see 'er," says Memphis, with Sway holding his arm tight to her body. Auto delicately removes a white sheet cover from Eleanor, Memphis's prized Shelby GT500. Memphis and Sway hop in, Memphis at the wheel and drive away, each one holding a waving hand out their window. 


End file.
